


Gods of New York

by stray_alchemist



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Forseti, Gen, Item 47 - Freeform, M/M, Marvel One-shot, Mythology - Freeform, Norse Myths & Legends, Ragnarok, SHIELD, Warning: Loki
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stray_alchemist/pseuds/stray_alchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Once somebody enters your mind, there is no going back to who you were.</i><br/>This is the end of the world as we know it and this time, it's nobody's hoax. They say the roles have been given - an euphemism for what the Council of S.H.I.E.L.D. did. But before everything ends, some people - and gods - want to get even.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ancientwinters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientwinters/gifts).



> Hello everyone, and welcome to "Gods of New York", my biggest project so far! Expect quite a few chapters, many characters, shifting perspectives, Edda references and eventual hints of romance.
> 
> Also, let me express my admiration for Marvel's one-shot "Item #47" and both Claire and Benny. And just to make clear - Claire is not an OC. She's been featured in that little gem. Which, I believe, makes her a justified (not to mention awesome) minor character in the verse.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing. Feel free to say what you think, critique it mercilessly or to send me a PM.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Claire discovers the ambiguity of working for S.H.I.E.L.D., a god drops by, and thin lines between diplomacy, threat and interrogation become blurred.

Once somebody enters your mind, there is no going back to who you were.

There is a void left behind; an empty space that makes you feel uneasy, like an intruder in your own head. On the other hand, there is no longing for the person who created it. Just hatred that burns white and hot, sharpens your senses and makes your fingers itch for that special arrow, awaiting the one who did this to you. Only sometimes the hollowness takes over, bringing shadows of threadbare thoughts and memories that don't belong to you.

Just like now. And it's enough to distract even you.

You almost slip from the roof of a skyscraper, clinging to its edge in the last possible moment. The battle beneath you is raging, and except for familiar flashes of red, gold, blue or green you can't tell what's exactly happening. Hanging over the avenue, you send a few arrows in the general direction of your enemies - though your hands are slightly shaky, to your annoyance - before crawling back and rushing off to the next building, alien images still lingering before your eyes.

Attacked, you fall just to bounce back and send your opponent to the chasm with one precise kick. It's almost ridiculous how your wits and self-control fail; nobody has managed to surprise you during combat in years. Someone is laughing straight to your ear.

'Tired, Legolas?'

Explaining all the shit in your head would take hours, and besides, you don't even want to do it. Therefore, you don't snap back, you run, just run, not even certain where - but you know towards whom, and it's all that matters.

After all, you've been awaiting this day since the blue cold from the sceptre poured into your heart.

_Several months earlier_

Since the infamous item #47 incident, New York had changed a lot for Claire Wise. She would wake up to the smell of fresh coffee and Benny's enthusiastic ramble on his new fascinating lab projects. She would stroll down the streets and eye people proudly from the heights of 5'8'' plus heels, happily pondering upon how they knew nothing of her secret job. She would be greeted by Agent Blake's weary sigh and would flash a wide grin in reply. And even if she would find paperwork on her desk, it would be S.H.I.E.L.D. paperwork. Awesome and important. Working for S.H.I.E.L.D. had made her feel awesome and important as well.

This time, however, she found a person in her office instead of a heap of papers.

Well, maybe there were some papers, but her attention was immediately drawn to the lean man standing next to her desk. He was staring absently at the documents she'd left there. She stopped, one hand frozen halfway between the doorknob and her bag, not sure what to do. Kindly ask him to leave? Threaten? Call the security? Pull out the rather useless gun?

"Hey, you" clearly wasn't the best option, but once she said it aloud, it couldn't be undone.

The man almost jumped at the sound of her voice. Claire noticed that calling him a man was, in fact, a slight exaggeration: in spite of his rather impressive height, he couldn't be older than eighteen. He still had childlish features and a mere suggestion of a stubble over his chin. Only his hands looked much older, as if he was used to demanding physical work. If not the hands, he could be a celebrity. Or any Nazi's blue-eyed, fair-haired wet dream. Or a sportsman, bearing in mind how agile his movements were once he's overcome his bewilderment.

Only she knew that none of these relatively convenient explanations were true. Her senses tingled, just as when she and Benny have found the Chitauri weapon. Not to mention that he'd gotten here somehow, and he certainly didn't have the keys. Either someone had let him in or he didn't need any keys. Claire couldn't decide which sounded worse. She glanced nervously at the glass eye of CCTV, hanging in the corner. The guys from security department were really asking for cuts in their salaries.

'My apologies for entering your office without your knowledge of permission,' the kid said in a surprisingly soft, soothing voice. 'However, the matter that brought me here is rather... urgent.'

'Sure, everyone says so.' She dropped her bag on the nearest chair, not averting her gaze from him. 'And then they drown you in bullshit.'

He raised his brows, the expression of genuine puzzlement back on his face.

'I'm sorry?'

'Whatever.' Claire shrugged. 'What is this urgent matter? And who the hell are you, by the way?'

'My apologies,' he repeated anxiously. 'But you didn't let me introduce myself. I am Forseti, of Asgard, son of Baldur...'

'Whoa. Wait, wait, wait.' She waved her hands. The name "Asgard" rang a bell - more than one, actually. She'd heard it in the headquarters before - usually followed by a nervous twitch of some kind. Not that she believed anyone could seriously have a mythical realm in mind. To the contrary; she was pretty sure that they picked it as a codename, along with Thor. Of course, she's seen the videos from the battle of New York on YouTube, she's seen the big guy with his hammer, but if they could craft Captain America's shield, how would be forging a hammer different?

The kid watched as Claire tapped on her smartphone, scrolling through webpages and desperately working on her disbelief.

'Just checking if we're speaking about the same Baldur,' she mumbled.

'The son of Odin', Forseti suggested kindly.

'Yeah, figured that.' The agent finally put her device aside. 'So I guess it makes Thor your uncle and the Allfather your grandpa, doesn't it?'

If he looked bewildered before, she had no words for his expression now.

'I suppose one could say so,' he replied at last.

Claire sighed. If he was an alien spy or an assassin sent after her, he was either so hopelessly terrible that she needn't worry or so good and convincing that her judgment just wouldn't matter.

'Let's assume I believe you,' she began, though the result of battle between reason and intuition remained uneven. 'So what's with this matter urgent enough to make you forget about your manners?'

'I don't think you're the one to whom I shall deliver my message,' he said in a firm voice.

'I'm just an assistant, after all,' Claire replied bitterly after her dreams of doing something really, really awesome and important finally dissolved. 'Why would anyone give a damn about me.'

'You could be given the important task to inform your director about my presence,' he told her with ever so slightly wry smile. Maybe there was a sharp edge to his sense of humor, after all.

'How funny,' she muttered. 'Gimme a minute. It's not that I can call the director whenever I want, but I'll see what I could do.' She put on her earphone and dialed Blake's number.

'Agent Blake? It's your favorite coffee girl.' She grinned at the muffled grumble that Blake uttered. Forseti watched her quietly, furrowing his brows. 'I report that we've got, um, a self-proclaimed god on board. He doesn't look very godly to me - ' as Claire turned her head to the kid, their gazes met for a while of uncomfortable, awkward silence, ' - but I thought you'd like to know anyway.'

'Hold on, Wise.' Even more muffled grumbling followed, accompanied by frantic tapping and commands shouted at someone else, definitely not her. 'The case has been assigned to Agent Romanov.' Blake made a pause for what sounded to be an attempt to smash his keyboard to pieces. 'Escort the... god to room 301. The security has been informed.'

'But...' Words stuck in her throat, none of them appropriate or polite. Questioning orders was out of question, as Blake told her at her first day of work, completely oblivious to the weak pun he'd created, but the feeling of an important issue slipping out of her hands was bitter nonetheless. She tried to swallow the disappointment. Without much success.

'No "buts", Wise,' her mentor cut it off before she even began to complain. 'Just do it. And...' he breathed in sharply, 'we'll be keeping our eyes on you, but you'd better keep an eye on him.'

'Yes, sir,' Claire nodded, fighting off the sensation of having a handful of ice cubes dropped right in her stomach. In spite of a rather bad fame she'd already earned, she could recognize a serious, honest warning.

She sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples as the line went silent.

'We'll be going, kid.'

Forseti stood up.

'Where?', he asked anxiously, smoothening the sleeves of his jacket.

'Not very far from here, only upstairs.' She waved her hand towards the ceiling. 'Seems they've found you a better babysitter.'

As far as she could tell by the look on his face, he also was a bit disappointed.

'I believe I could have grown fond of you,' he said quietly.

Claire blinked.

'Er. Well. Thanks.' She clasped her hands together. 'Who knows, maybe we'll meet sometime? How long are you going to hang around?'

'I only wish I knew.' His lips curled in a nervous smile.

'Maybe you'll find out,' she muttered, leading him to the corridor.

He complied, stopping only to look more closely at what Claire considered mundane office facilities, such as water dispensers or elevators. But then, maybe gods didn't have any of those.

She found it hard not to think about him as of a harmless teenager; he seemed so vulnerable, so naive, so lost. Even though his movements were unbelievably swift and precise, Claire couldn't imagine the so-called god in a frenzy of battle or whatever it was that Norse deities did. Her imagination offered her a picture of the kid on a Vogue cover instead.

Agent Romanov was already waiting for them, calm and unmoved. As if she dealt with gods on a daily basis. Claire felt almost grateful for this, gladly passing the burden of control over the situation to someone who seemed to manage it with ease and grace. She walked to the woman and stretched out her hand.

'I'm Agent Claire Wise. Pleased to meet you.'

Natasha's expression remained the same, invariably unaffected, as if she didn't wonder how did this surname correspond to a girl whose use of item #47 was a display of unmatchable stupidity.

'Pleased to meet you, too,' she replied in an indifferent tone, not shaking her hand, and turned to Claire's companion.

Natasha had met only two Asgardians, but it was enough for her to recognize a pattern that she could also see in this kid. He had equally regular features and bright, glowing eyes that immediately made her think of Thor. There was also this familiar air, the sensation she couldn't put her finger on - yet she knew that it surrounded Loki as well, even if twisted and corrupted - the air of royalty, as if every one of them held a firm grip over this world. That was what made other people bend their heads and kneel; an overwhelming impression. Not looks. Not physical power or magic. Only this.

And the kid possessed it, too.

'Introduce yourself,' Romanov demanded.

The godling bowed his head courtly.

'I am Forseti, son of Baldur, and I am merely a messenger.' He smiled politely; surprisingly enough, the smile reached his eyes. 'My duty is to become a... diplomat, as you would call it. I shall speak on behalf of Asgard.'

Behind his back, Claire made a silent mock of "we come in peace".

In spite of Forseti's flawless manners and kind voice, Natasha felt the familiar grasp of alertness.

'As far as I know, we have formed an alliance with Asgard. And though Thor has left the Earth, we considered this alliance rather stable', she said, watching him cautiously.

'We certainly hope so,' Forseti replied. 'However, the recent occurrences have darkened its future.'

Black Widow leaned towards the godling, her acute senses fixed on him.

'Can you explain?'

'We are afraid that somebody on Midgard might have given shelter to a fugitive of Asgardian origin.' He chose his words carefully; each of them was smooth, free of any additional meaning or space for second-guessing. Natasha's gut feeling almost screamed out.

'Agent Wise,' she said suddenly, holding back a smirk at the ridicule, 'you can go back to your assignments now.'

For the second time this day, a strain of complaints and curses stuck in Claire's throat. However, if with Blake she could try convincing him with her babbling, with Agent Romanov she probably wouldn't stand a chance. She didn't dare to try.

'Yes, ma'am,' she said, even if a bit too loud, and left the room, resisting the urge to slam the door.

Natasha crossed her arms, careful not to make any assumptions. Even those that were intuitive. Or just obvious.

'A fugitive,' she repeated after him, emphasizing the last word. 'How do you know this fugitive is hiding here?'

Forseti gave another immensely polite smile.

'I suppose you already know his ways, Lady Romanov. His pride wouldn't let him just disappear without a trace. Loki Laufeyson had escaped his prison and made sure none of us missed it.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a call to arms is made, Steve discovers that no good deed goes unpunished, Benny places his hands over Chitauri weapons again, and Loki is, not surprisingly, nowhere to be seen.

Fury's comment was forthright, to say the least.

'He's feeding us bullshit', he snarled, his only eye staring at the recordings from Forseti's room. 

For a longer while, nobody answered. Maria Hill stood behind him as if she was his shadow. Natasha sat on the table with her arms crossed and an impenetrable expression on her face. Steve Rogers only darted questioning looks at each of them. It was the world they at least seemed to know, after all. Their times, not his. They should know how to deal with them. 

He breathed in deeply before expressing everyone's main concern.  
'They didn't send Thor.'  
'No, they didn't send Thor, thank you for this clever remark, Captain... Obvious,' Fury snapped. 'Not that I'm certain that one could send an alien prince anywhere and make him run errands. Anyway, that's the point. They're not even pretending it's a diplomatic misunderstanding, they just don't care.'  
'As far as I remember, they shouldn't even deem us dangerous.' Steve raised his brow skeptically. 'Us, being petty and tiny and all that.'  
'Well, yeah. That was before the siege of New York and having an adopted god hulked around.'  
'You're saying they decided we are a threat, after all.'  
Fury grinned at him in a way that was anything but cheerful. 

Askew images from CCTV showed the blonde-haired godling sitting by the table. He'd already examined his surroundings in a thorough, careful manner, almost if he could destroy the furniture by sheer accident. Now, he just sat, tapping his fingers on the wooden surface. He looked like an ordinary teenager. Certainly not like someone who would be able to smile while declaring a war on Midgard in case of "indolence in delivering the fugitive".  
'Am I the only one experiencing a deja vu?' Romanov sighed.  
Maria's reply, which came after a minute of dense, uncomfortable muteness, sounded much like a warning.  
'He's not our prisoner.'  
The Russian smirked.  
'This cell is much better than a glass jar, if you ask me.'  
'Cut the crap. He can leave it whenever he wants.' Fury leaned towards the screens. 'We don't need another alien army banging on our door because we held their emissary hostage.'  
'Didn't you consider this option, Director?' Natasha asked with a dangerous spark in her eye.  
'What do we do, then?' Steve's voice drew everyone's attention. Fury stared at him.  
'What do we do?' Rogers repeated. 'We certainly can't ignore it.'  
The silence that fell was, again, heavy with unsaid words.  
'And just to make sure you know...' Captain hesitated for a couple of seconds, keeping his careful gaze on Nick's face. 'I want honest answers this time.'  
Natasha allowed herself a faint smile.

'Very well.' Director turned from the monitors. 'You want honesty? Here, have my thoughts on the subject in a nutshell. I don't give a shit about Loki on the run, unless he decides to attack us again, and by now he should know better than this. I just don't like the idea of some alien planet, realm, whatever you call it, intimidating us and imposing submission upon us.' He paused to draw a breath. 'Whatever we do, we'll end up playing by their rules. Either we'll silently accept those rules or they'll make us do so, in a classic, tyrannical manner. Let me remind you why. At some point I might have mentioned how hopelessly outgunned we are. You may even remember my efforts to change that through controlled use of alien technology. However, my solution to this problem was dismissed by a team of three brilliant men...'  
Steve blinked in surprise as the sudden realization made its way through his mind, flooding it with a disturbingly familiar emotion: guilt.  
'Are you accusing me, Director?' He asked sharply.  
'Yeah, that might be the case.' Fury gave him a wry smile. 'Because now, you see, there is nothing, literally nothing, that could keep Asgard from putting their threats into practice.' 

Hill clenched her teeth, maintaining a calm expression, even though something deep inside - she liked to call that part of her mind "conscience" - stirred and squirmed at Director's words. Clever argumentation, she thought. But nothing more. She could as well say that S.H.I.E.L.D. had nearly literally asked for alien intervention by experimenting on an unknown, infinitely powerful energy source, and blame it on Fury. After a short moment of hesitation, she kept that idea for herself. She'd chosen sides long ago, after all. 

'You still haven't answered the question, Director,' Natasha said in a quiet voice.  
'Thank you very much, Romanov.' Fury's half-smile was an unhappy, predatory one. 'This is what we do. We obediently follow Asgard's orders and find Loki. Then we can negotiate as equals. Let's see how desperate they are to get their bastard prince back.'  
'And if they are very desperate? As in ready to attack? Can we risk it?' Rogers frowned.  
'We'll have Loki. And Forseti.'  
'That's just as safe as juggling rods of dynamite over a fireplace.'  
Hill and Fury exchanged quick, knowing glances.  
'You're considering negotiating with Loki as well, aren't you?' Romanov crossed her arms.  
Judging by Steve's expression, he had run out of appropriate parallels.  
'If that's what it takes to make sure this planet stays intact?' Director asked. 'Yes.'

Natasha exhaled slowly.  
'You know Barton won't be happy about it. And I suppose you want him to be engaged in this... initiative.'  
Fury's only eye was fixed on her, capturing every change in her expression.  
'Will you tell him about my backup plan?'  
She thought of Clint and his eyes like two pools of morbid azure. He deserved to have his revenge - assuming any revenge could be sufficient for the crime of breaking and entering into someone's thoughts. Then, she thought of Loki, too. Of his disdainful smile when he believed she was struggling between her feelings and her duties.  
'No,' she replied.  
'Great. Contact him, then.'  
'Who else do you want in?'  
Fury hesitated.  
'Thor, obviously, if you can find him. I'll call Foster and Selvig, they might come up with something, if they haven't had enough of this Norse business yet.'  
'Stark?'  
'Certainly.'  
'...Banner?'  
Steve glanced at Natasha. She raised one brow.  
'I don't think we'll have to convince him this time,' Fury said, a quiet note of triumph in his voice.

***

Midgard didn't make sense at first. It was huge, messy, and loud, pushing itself onto Forseti with all its force, suddenly surrounding him like a thick blanket. The godling found himself choking on its air and blinded by its lights. Everything felt more intense, to the point of where it began to itch and hurt. Even the fabric of his clothing - Midgardians called this attire "casual", though they seemed to pick it too carefully to allow any airiness - brushed against his skin in a way he couldn't ignore. The only reassuring fact he could think of was that this city was designed much like a grid: hundreds and hundreds of perpendicular streets. Not that he was afraid of getting lost. He was afraid of not finding what he was looking for. 

Forseti’s fingers flickered in a simple gesture, the one that was supposed to bring luck. Even if it didn’t, it brought memories of home – and comfort. A rather valuable feeling, especially when he already knew he was being followed.

He squinted his eyes, looking at the silhouette on the roof. The details were blurred, he couldn’t tell anything about his person, but he didn’t need to; he felt that careful, steady look on his back all the time. A smile lit up his face. They could trace him as long as they wanted. He flickered his fingers again, turned and continued his stroll, treading as freely as before.

The senseless, noisy city gradually disentangled itself into narratives and tales. All Forseti had to do was to listen attentively – renovated buildings screamed about having their walls destroyed by monstrous half-animals, half-machines. The echo of shattered glass crackling on pavements still lingered, to be picked up by a careful ear. Even the air carried the familiar reek of Jotun magic, although mortals seemed to be completely oblivious to it. But New York remembered. Battlefields were like that. Years could have passed, and people still would avoid certain places without any particular reason, repelled by memories of past fights and death. 

Forseti stopped and stared at the grayish clouds above. He didn’t understand how anyone could live in a city upon which suffering had brought such a visible mark – a mark that happened to be a decade older than memories of Loki. Not to mention the scar that ran through the sky in the place where portal had been. 

After all, it was just a matter of time when the stitches will break, and something will start to seep through again.

The mortals, apparently, didn’t know about it. They didn’t know about so many things.

***

Benny whistled as he placed his lab coat back in the drawer with an omnipresent, stylized eagle engraved on it. Blueprints and sketches still bounced around his mind along with equations and ideas yet unformed. It was already dark outside – again, hours had passed by without him noticing. His stomach reminded him noisily about supper time. Or dinner time. Actually, when he thought about it, he didn’t remember having any lunch as well, unless lab coffee with double cream and a spoonful of cocoa counted as lunch. 

‘Leaving, Pollack? I thought you moved in here,’ one of his called. Benny could swear he could quote this man’s articles from memory, but couldn’t associate the voice and face with any particular name, no matter how hard he tried.  
‘Still haven’t found the right furniture.’ He gave an uncertain, shy grin. ‘And they don’t seem to provide cushions.’  
‘Well, you might have a chance to discuss that. Hill wants to see you.’  
‘What?’ Benny gaped. ‘Now?’  
‘Yes. Floor -3, she’s waiting for you.’ The scientist’s expression was blank, as if no one at S.H.I.E.L.D. cared about work hours.

And that was it. No warning, just an order. _You should be happy_ , he reminded himself, walking towards the elevator, his head unexpectedly dizzy. _You have nothing to fear. It’s not one of Claire’s crazy ideas. It’s probably just a regular chat about your promotion, even if the hour is a bit… odd. Maybe they don’t want others to be jealous - you’ve been a perfect worker, haven’t you?_ He placed one hand over his stomach, as if it could help to get rid of the nervousness. 

Benny went through all the necessary scans – fingerprints, iris, voice pattern – with that uneasy feeling building up inside him. He thought of it as if they were opening him, one piece at a time, leaving just the very core. Naked and exposed.

Maria Hill was sitting behind a desk, though he could barely see the furniture underneath folders and blueprints. She pointed to a chair on the opposite side.  
‘Mr. Pollack. It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ she said, even though she didn’t seem pleased. Actually… she didn’t seem anything.  
‘Er, yes, thank you, it’s a pleasure to meet you, too,’ Benjamin replied, unsure whether it was already harassment or not.  
‘I have to say we’re impressed with the results of your work.’ She opened one of the files and looked at it briefly.  
‘Thank you,’ he repeated automatically.  
‘We usually don’t offer promotion to anyone who has been employed for such a short period of time, but we’ve discussed it and decided that we can make an exception.’  
Hill smiled. Benny smiled back, overwhelmed with relief.  
‘The project we thought about is a highly confidential one.’ She kept on talking. ‘I suppose one could say it was also inspired by you, since it is focused on Chitauri weapons…’  
If Pollack was relieved before, now he was beaming. Maria acknowledged it with a little nod and spread the blueprints in front of him. 

His fingers almost literally itched to work with alien weapons again. He gazed at the sketches and traced their lines, enchanted by the elegance of otherworldly design. It left him almost breathless, with a promise of fascinating inquiry. The kind of job he was dreaming about for years. Cutting edge technology. Some of it… unexpectedly familiar.  
‘But wait.’ He leaned closer, his nose almost touching the sheets. ‘That’s not only Chitauri stuff. That’s Stark tech. Long abandoned project from the time when Obadiah Stane was –‘  
He bit his tongue. Something about Hill’s expression made him shut up and save his questions and remarks for himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bruce makes a seemingly unimportant purchase, abandons Kolkata for the second time and forms an alliance while Midgard is somewhat inhospitable for Loki.

On one particularly hot and humid day, Bruce Banner found himself buying a laptop. 

He didn't plan to get one - he was just walking past a thrift shop, one of many in this not so wealthy district of Kolkata, when he realized how quiet his world was. 

For the first time in many years, he found this thought unpleasant. The quiet in his life didn't indicate his safe and cozy personal space anymore; suddenly, it became the lack of something. 

'...and I need one with wireless internet access,' Bruce added. The seller gave him a look that made an apology form on Bruce's tongue. He swallowed it quickly. 'And a two-core processor,' he said in a slightly louder voice.  
The other man turned his back on Bruce and started rummaging heaps of boxes, tossing some of them carelessly.  
'With a cracked casing?', he suggested, showing one of them to the doctor.  
Bruce nodded, to his own surprise, and took out his wallet, aware that the price was too high for an used laptop. Bargaining never was his thing.

And so he ended up clutching a cardboard box to his chest in spite of doubting whether even the urchins of Kolkata would be tempted to relieve him from the burden of its content. The laptop inside rattled quietly against its walls, promising one thing Bruce wouldn't expect himself to need: contact with the world. With the U.S., to be precise. With a certain citizen of New York. Or was it Malibu? 

If he wanted simply to contact the world, he didn't have to buy a laptop. Even the streets of Kolkata reminded him of the past few months, the things he'd done, the fame he'd unwillingly earned for himself. Among elaborate graffitis and wall paintings, he could catch sight of portraits of the so-called Avengers - their images in bright colors, surrounded by swirling Sanskrit. Natasha as Durga, with eight arms like a spider, each of them holding another deadly weapon. Tony as himself, apparently _godly enough_ , sometimes bearing surprising resemblance to certain Bollywood stars. Thor defeating his brother, disguised as a naga. 

As for himself, Bruce didn't feel godly to the smallest extent. He wouldn't be able to save this city even if the planet's safety depended on it. He wasn't able to save its inhabitants - cholera, protozoa and AIDS were much more lethal than an entire alien army. What kind of hero or god he was if he couldn't defeat those first?

At home, he unpacked the laptop and connected it to the strongest wireless. He had an e-mail account once, and old, or even ancient by the standards of Internet, mailbox on his university server. Reluctantly, he tapped the address of Culver University and anxiously waited for the website to load. 

They didn't delete his account - that was the good news. The bad news was that it was flooded with spam, student assignments almost a decade old, calls for papers and a few messages that made him more than slightly suspicious and paranoid. On the top of that there was an official S.H.I.E.L.D. e-mail. He checked it twice, ran a thorough antivirus scan, made sure his IP wasn't recorded and opened the letter, breathing deeply. It was sent just yesterday and contained a ciphered recording, with a short comment attached. "This might interest you."  
'Bastards,' he muttered as his lips curled into an involuntary smile. 

A few hours later, after listening to the recording a dozen times and pulling out every single thread of meaning that could have been in it, he decided to answer the e-mail. If they wanted his help, they had to provide a means of transport first. Preferably not an unreliable flying fortress. Those were stressful as all hells. 

***

Even though New York should have been familiar to Jane - more familiar than vast and snowy fjords of Tromso, at least - it evoked mostly twitches of nervousness. She missed her messy trailer or any of the small rented flats she'd lived in. Big, glossy halls of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters brought images of cutting edge technology and scientific breakthroughs as well as funding and grants she usually lacked, but were also somehow... intimidating. 

Thankfully, Darcy seemed to catch up this professional atmosphere naturally, as if she was born to deal with important people, shiny spaces and big audiences. She walked between Jane and Erik with an almost victorious, professional smile on her face, successfully building the impression that she was perfectly in control of anything related to the two scientists, from their research and lectures, through rents, bills and taxes, to their favourite type of coffee. Jane sighed quietly. She hoped she could believe this. 

She was plainly scared instead. Just as much as she was on the day when S.H.I.E.L.D. agents arrived at her door and told her to move to Tromso without much further explanation. All she knew was that it was somehow connected with Thor and that they didn't let her anywhere near him then. Even though he was there, on Earth - on Midgard, she corrected herself - during the siege. Of course, she wouldn't join him in the battle, but apart from battling, there were things that even warrior gods weren't capable of doing. He needed her. In some inexplicable, intricate way, he needed her. 

And if she couldn't see him before - how was now different?

In the elevator, she ransacked her bag nervously, looking for painkillers. The assistant squeezed her arm gently in what was meant as an encouraging, comforting gesture.  
'Hey, what's going on?'  
Jane glanced at the ceiling.  
'Is it safe to talk here?'  
Darcy gave the electronic devices a genuinely crossed look.  
'In my opinion? No. But they'd better know what state did they put you in, because it's their fault.'  
'If you say so.' She shrugged. 'I'm just expecting a lot of... mess.'  
'Well, that's for sure, but you won't be in this mess alone. There's a certain Doctor Banner who will be your research supervisor.' Lewis took out her tablet and spread a schedule across the screen.  
'How do you know this?'  
'Well, I'm your assistant, am I not? I'm supposed to know such stuff!'  
Jane blinked and, by Darcy's judgment, went slightly pale.  
'Doctor Banner? Are you sure you got his name correctly?'  
'I am. Is he important?'  
'Important?' Foster rolled her eyes. 'He's world's greatest specialist on radiation far below the visible spectrum! I've applied his theories to half of my experiments, roughly speaking!' She looked at her assistant with barely concealed disbelief, as if she expected her to recognize every single quotation and scientific reference she'd ever made. 'Or rather was that famous specialist before he... disappeared,' she finished, somewhat grimly.  
'Well, you'll have the chance to discuss it with him.' Darcy smiled.  
Before Jane had the time to reply, the door opened. 

They walked through another corridor to a conference room. There was already someone waiting for them - a dark-haired, tanned man wearing a loose, purple shirt. Its brim was now serving as a wipe for the glasses.  
'You must be Jane Foster,' he said, placing the glasses carefully over his nose.  
Jane nodded.  
'Bruce Banner. Pleased to meet you.' 

Darcy's eyes became wider as she recognized him. Compared to the excerpts in the news, he looked... more ordinary. Like there was no raging monster hiding inside of him. She blinked. Monsters or not, he was a great scientist, according to Jane. And Thor's friend. Darcy's mind began picking up all the details that could be potentially helpful. 

Jane had completely disregarded the raging monster part and moved swiftly to jargon and theories. There was a quality both she and Banner possessed, which made them lighten the moment science appeared in the conversation and turned their shyness and lack of confidence into childlike fascination and surprisingly passionate devotion. It was vivid and enticing, even if sometimes obscure. Darcy couldn't help smiling.  
'...I've had this idea for a telescope working in that low spectrum for years, but no one wanted to fund it...' Jane gesticulated as if she tried to sketch the device in the air between her and Banner.  
'Now it might be invaluable,' he replied.  
'What do you mean?'  
'I mean that S.H.I.E.L.D. might be interested in developing it.'  
Jane blushed.  
'I don't think I'm... suited for this kind of job. For S.H.I.E.L.D., I mean. I'm not courageous. I'm mostly a theoretician.'  
Bruce smiled to her.  
'Science requires a different kind of courage.' Darcy could swear he would blush, too, if not the tan. 'The courage to question and to support theories, even if everybody else disregards them.' Jane raised her eyebrows in surprise. 'And you do have this trait, if I'm not mistaken.'  
'I'm doing my best,' she said.  
Banner gave her a serious look.  
'We'll need it. Badly.' He sighed. 'They want us to find a god. Two gods, actually.'  
Darcy chuckled.  
'That gives us just nine realms to search through, right? Piece of cake.'  
'Hopefully, just Earth, handful of theories and a few risky assumptions.'  
Jane furrowed her brows.  
'And some bait,' she added sharply.  
For a second, the doctor looked like he wanted to escape the room.  
'It wasn't my idea,' he said finally. 'Good to know you don't support it, either. Spares me a good deal of explaining why we will begin with playing against the rules and outlines.'

***

Nick Fury didn't expect Forseti - not now, not when the building was almost deserted, save for night watchmen and a few hopeless cases of workaholism, not when teenagers should be asleep. The godling stood underneath a glow-tube lamp, his hair shining like an aureole, his eyes wide and pale. He clasped and unclasped his hands together, as if he didn't know what to do with his limbs. Signs of anxiety difficult to omit. And yet he was strikingly alien, unnatural, ghastly. A god, after all.  
'Is there any progress, Director?'  
Fury took a few steps towards the kid.  
'A team of scientists is working on it. Signatures, radiation and presence of untypical isotopes or even whole elements.' He smiled to himself at untypical elements. There was quite a source of those in the building. 'Do you even know what isotopes are?'  
Forseti shook his head.  
'Well then, this won't help you much. But the main point is, we're working.'  
'Three days.' The godling fixed his eyes on him. 'It's been three days already. The warriors of Asgard are not known for their patience.'  
'Are you threatening me?' Director said curtly.  
'Just informing.'  
'Thanks.' He turned away from Forseti. 'Much appreciated. Now stop bothering with us and go to sleep. Or do whatever you gods do.'  
The kid gave a slight nod and walked back to his room, clutching his fingers to hide their tremble. 

***

By Norns, it hurt. Not that the sensation itself was any special - yet another kind of pain, and a rather dull one - but it was enough to blur the senses for an unpleasant while. Loki lay on his back, waiting for his breath to change from agonized gasps to its usual rhythm, and squinted his eyes at the dimmed stars. He could see Ratatosk, which had gained the irrelevantly noble name of Cassiopeia, and Hellewagen rolling along the sky in no hurry. Thiassi's eyes blinked at him, reminding him of what he'd done. The Trickster allowed himself a smile. At least old, greedy Thiassi would be useful for him again, guiding his way in Vinland. 

He got up and began walking through the cold, quiet night - after all, night was the time of rites and magic. His time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two agents have a row, two assassins do their job, two physicists talk about trees, and Tony Stark does what he wants.

Benny held Claire firmly, pressing his cheek to the top of her head, muttering comforting words into messy wisps of silky, dark hair.

  
He'd discovered long ago it was somehow easier this way - not seeing her grimace, pout her lips, ask "But why?" in that special tone which made his firm arguments melt, even though he knew he was right. Especially when he knew he was right.  
'I really have to go. It won't take long, honey.'  
'How do you know?'  
Oh, shit, she lifted her head, squinting at him accusingly.  
'Huh?'  
'You told me it was some kind of secret project without any particular deadline.' She furrowed her brows. 'How can you know it's not going to take long? That's an awful contradiction.'  
Benny gave a deep, internal sigh. There went his idea for comforting Claire. No plans could save him now from furious glares and sudden fits of rage that would put any spoilt five-year-old to shame.  
'They'll let me go back to New York soon, I think.' He patted her back.  
She smirked.  
'I guess I won't starve myself to death by then.'  
Benny was genuinely taken aback. He had expected expressions of love and longing - even if angry and possessive - but not irony of any kind.  
'What?'  
'You're hiding something from me.'  
The young scientist didn't hold back his next weary sigh.  
'Didn't I tell you it's a secret project?'  
Claire took a step back, observing his expression carefully. Irony was slowly turning to anger - and, what Benny noticed with a sting of nasty surprise, jealousy.  
'So secret you can't tell even me?'  
'Claire.' He shook his head.  
'But I'm working for S.H.I.E.L.D., too!' Her voice reached those well-known, high-pitched tones, reserved for bad moods. Bad as in close to homicidal, Benny noticed, recalling that damned alien weapon. 'I've told you about the things I do! Even about the teenage god!'  
He let her hands go.  
'Maybe you shouldn't have.'  
'...what?' Claire stared at him in disbelief. 'Did you really say that?'

Benny rubbed his eyelids, as if hoping that this could make the image of his frantic girlfriend magically disappear. He tried to imagine frantic Agent Sitwell instead. Or frantic Maria Hill. Time after time, his imagination clashed with solid facts: neither Sitwell nor Hill would ever express such anger. They were always frightfully composed. Professional. So unlike Claire.  
'Maybe you shouldn't have told me about the god.' He gathered all his courage and looked her in the eye. 'S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't like one big loving family, you know. There are secrets. Even competing projects, I bet. Loads of alternate plans and escape routes, in case something... doesn't work. We're the least important in this. Nobody's in it for fun.'

Claire kept still throughout this short lecture, the longest he could afford, and then she did the scariest possible thing.

She smiled.

'Maybe you're right,' she replied.  
Benny discovered that he'd honestly prefer her to push herself into a hasty, angry hug which could as well count as a very uncoordinated attack.  
'What?'  
'I said that maybe you're right,' she sighed.  
'So...' _Will you let me go?_ was the question he wanted to ask, no matter how immature it would sound. But, then, it would be at least true. That's how the things were, between Claire and him. Unhealthy, as his mother put it. He used to reply that Claire was just extremely passionate.  
'They're probably waiting for you,' she gave him a pat on the shoulder.  
Benny lifted his bag from the floor, slowly digesting the concept that Claire didn't give up. She just changed her goals. Now she had something else in mind, and he'll leave her here, unexpectedly conceiving her crazy ideas and, for worse, bringing them to life before he'd even know about them. That was the worst thing to do. On the other hand, "I was late because of my jealous girlfriend who's also your employee" was just equally bad.  
'See you soon, darling.' He gave her a deep kiss; she responded impetuously.

When he left the flat, she waited, watching the second hand of the clock make five full rounds, then opened his laptop.  
'Secret project,' she muttered, entering his password. 'My ass.'

***

The new assistant was promising. Quick, well-organized and, most important of all, hot. Could be Marilyn Monroe's red-headed, more self-confident, much, much younger sister. If only she wasn't so unresponsive.

The financier glanced at her. The girl barely lifted her head, typing with such devotion as if her life depended on this dull task. Of course, he still had a whole range of ways of impressing her other than smalltalk - from expensive dinners to glimpses of cutting-edge technology, the latter thanks to a real downpour of clever devices of alien origin.

'Offer written,' she announced in the least sexy imaginable voice, cutting off his rather pleasant stream of thoughts.  
'Great.' He didn't even bother to check it. 'Send it, won't you?'  
The redhead continued typing scrupulously.  
'You've got half an hour until the meeting, sir,' she told him. 'Shall I prepare your speech?'  
'Sure.' He fell to his chair. The secretary hustled, taking out files and printing necessary documents.

He didn't notice a few seconds of sudden silence, when the rasp of pulled drawers and printers stopped. Something stung his neck. Then he didn't notice anything at all.

Natasha pulled the needle carefully out of his nape and placed it in a vial, examining her work. Not even a drop of blood. She collected the documents and for the last time glanced at the screens, all pitch black. According to her superiors, the viruses have eaten up every single unit of data.  
'Black Widow to Hawkeye,' she whispered.  
No response.  
'Black Widow to Hawkeye.'  
Still, no response. Romanov gathered the files and walked out of the room, closing door behind her. The corridor in front of her should be clear. She kept on pacing, her breath speeding up being the only sign of a sense of defenselessness and fear creeping up slowly. It was the exact kind of fear she experienced months ago, a cold, overwhelming feeling close to bitter helplessness, just like when they told her that Barton has been compromised.

Natasha walked, step after step, heels clicking, important documents and precious flash disks resting safely in the crook of her arm. The place was almost deserted, if not for the cameras - half of them were fake, as she already knew, but the other half was capturing images.

She used the back door and went down the spiral emergency stairs. Clint was supposed to take care of the underground parking, in his own words. But the guards were plodding around in their usual manner. She walked among the rows of cars unhurriedly, carrying the papers in a nervous grip.

A voice within her - the weepy, trembling voice belonging to an orphaned girl long gone - ordered her to blow her cover instantly and run as fast as she could to find him. She ignored it and followed her usual routine until she left the company’s building.

Then, she allowed herself to run.

He was sitting at his post, his head resting against the wall, languid, cold hands over the quiver. As if he was asleep. Only his eyes were wide open, dilated pupils focused at some distant point.

'Clint.' Natasha shook his arms violently, spilling the files around. The world around her fell silent - or so she felt, staring intensely into those empty, absent eyes, not even eerily blue this time, she'd prefer them to be blue, at least something could be done about it, instead of witnessing him dying without any explicable cause.

'Clint,' she repeated imploringly, holding his wrist, just to feel the faltering beat. His body shifted inertly against hers.  
Not again, she thought. She'd already lost him once. While talking to Fury, before the siege, her only response was a question about further orders. In her mind, she'd evoked all the memories, from Budapest to the day when he went to New Mexico. She'd bode farewell to every emotion, cutting all of them out one by one, until only hope and anger were left. Letting go was an exhausting struggle between what was real and what she wanted to believe in, but what was real for him now?

\- It felt different; the weight of a knife in his hand instead of the tremor of a bowstring. The rest of it felt different, too, from slender hand holding the blade, through sharp breaths, to vision so acute it almost hurt. Such coastlines, bone white and deserted and as dead as a place can be, didn't exist. Not in his world. But the instinctive need to run, in spite of feet digging in gravel and shallow waves, clearly belonged to him. He turned his head, listening out to the sounds of chase and echoes of his-not his name, swallowed by chilly breeze –

'Clint.' Natasha laid him on the ground, pressing her hands against his chest. He didn’t move at all, still staring, as if the afternoon sun didn’t hurt his eyes. She leaned over him, kneeling in the dust, ignoring someone’s voice calling her through the earpiece.  
‘Agent Romanov, report!’  
She flung the device aside.

\- Echoes and mists turned into a silhouette of a girl. She smiled rapaciously, showing all her teeth. More of them than actually should be visible, he realized. Her mouth opened like a deep cut across pale, hollow cheeks. He stopped, panting.  
'This isn't the warmest welcome I have ever received,' he said in his-not his voice.  
'Hospitality doesn't seem to run in the family.' She fluttered her eyelashes.  
'Still a recalcitrant child,' he spat out. 'And I gave you a realm.'  
The girl lifted her index finger warily.  
'Let me remind you,' she hissed, 'that it wasn't exactly you, father.' The last word sounded much like an insult.  
He said nothing.  
'So is it true what they say? That you've got nowhere to hide but among the dead, in Niflheim?' Her monstrous lips curled in a smile again. 'Don't you know that there are many waiting for you here?'  
A shiver ran across his spine.  
'And what makes you think, dear father, that I won't... give you to them?'  
Hospitality didn't run in the family, but bargaining did -

Romanov's fierce movements were enough to break ribs. If that was what took to save a life. Even if she was used to taking it away, not to pushing it into someone. Clint’s lips twitched in a suppressed moan of pain. She hit his chest desperately, forcing a breath on it.

\- 'I have a better offer,' he replied calmly. 'A nicer soul. A soul you'd love to keep for yourself.'  
'Oh.' Hel licked her lips. 'Not a forlorn traitor like you?'  
He resisted the urge to snap back, or to hit her.  
‘The soul I’m thinking of is pure and belongs to the most adored among the Aesir.’  
‘And for a while I thought you meant your stepbrother.’ She smirked.  
Surges of anger that came were almost blinding. He clenched his hand around the knife, ready to attack.  
‘Don’t you dare touch him.’  
The girl shrugged.  
‘He’s gone on a long journey, as you probably know.’ Her bony arms shuddered in the wind. ‘So, another soul? I’ll be waiting for it. You’d better keep your promise this time, father.’  
She gave a deep, courtly bow, until her silvery braids touched the ground. He replied with a brief nod.  
‘You’d better leave soon,’ she whispered, disappearing in the mists. ‘My servants are always hungry.’ –

Clint suddenly cowered, coughing. Natasha held him through the tremble, listening to his breath until it became steady and deep. His cold hands tightened over her arms.  
‘It’s alright,’ she said quietly.  
‘It’s not,’ he rasped. ‘That bastard is up to some shit again. I just don’t want to be a part of it. I don’t want him to be a part of me. I don’t want his thoughts in my head.’  
Romanov held him tighter. She recognized that withheld shame, unsurprising at all; the shame of being used. Her only comfort was that the so-called god probably experienced it, too.  
‘I know. We’ll find him, and it’ll be over.’  
He dug his fingers into her hair, as if her proximity was good enough as a confirmation.  
‘Is this real?’ He asked in a barely audible voice.  
‘It is,’ she replied.

***

New York at night looked like a sky of its own kind. Even from the heights of S.H.I.E.L.D. facilities, Jane found it a little overwhelming. Her gaze wandered from blazing skyline to pages of a book she held.

'That's interesting,' she heard from behind. 'Modern telescopes transmit images free of any distortions that atmosphere or daylight can cause. Many of them operate in bands where those factors don't even matter. And yet, I've never met an astronomer who wouldn't prefer to work at night.'  
Jane pressed the book firmly to knitted braids of her sweater and smiled to doctor Banner.  
'Maybe only nocturnal animals choose this job.'  
'That's my kin,' he replied. 'I don't suppose it's your bedtime story, then.'  
She presented the cover - yellowish, tattered picture of a tree and rough, pointy letters carved over its trunk.  
'That, too, but not this time.' Her fingers ran across the title with affection. 'I'm looking for ideas. Edda is quite inspiring... once you get over how utterly weird it is.'  
Bruce sat on the edge of a table, polishing his glasses, again.  
'Did you find something?'  
'I'm returning to one of my old concepts.' Foster leafed through the book. 'One I came up with while pondering more figurative meanings of the myths.' She frowned.  
'Care to talk about it?'  
'If you're interested...' Jane gave a shy smile and clicked on her laptop, causing the screen to gleam in what Bruce immediately nicknamed Tesseract blue.  
'Back to disbelief and metaphors.' He put his glasses on.

'I've thought a lot about Yggdrasil.' An etched picture of a tree with three branches and three roots appeared. 'Many cultures have a tree as the axis of the world, but there's something else. The ash tree is not just a scaffolding for the worlds.' Jane looked at the picture as if it was something astounding, not seen before. She smiled unwittingly. 'It's a connection. It binds the worlds together and is also... a road. The most sophisticated highway you can think of.'  
The etching slowly faded, giving place to a modern, three-dimensional graphic showing shining, intertwined strands.  
'I doubt Yggdrasil is a tree. Well, it's not a tree in the sense in which we understand trees. The metaphor is legit, if you look at its shape. But try to get the tree idea out of your head for a while.'  
Bruce nodded.  
'It's a net.'  
Flickers of enthusiasm and excitement – and something else, something softer, like defenseless hope - lit Jane's eyes.  
'Exactly. A net, connecting all the worlds.'  
The strands were substituted by a map resembling metro lines.  
'Thanks to Sturluson, we know the topography of the worlds.' With every click, a dot appeared, marking another realm. Midgard. Asgard. Even Niflheim. 'Now let's assume this net has its own physical properties, enabling travel between worlds. That's how it works, according to the myths. Let's assume we could use it, too.'  
A smile appeared on Banner's lips.  
'A brave assumption. Many variables to check.'  
He walked through the room, switching computers on.

***

At first Tony really, really wanted to tell Director that Stark Tower wasn’t any Missing Gods Department of the CSI. Then he decided that Missing Gods Department could actually be fun and challenging. After hours of staring at data and the scepter the fun part was dubious, but the challenge – absolutely not.

He shoved his finger over the edge of the weapon, pressing it until it almost cut his skin.  
‘Tell me, where’s your master?’ He asked. ‘Where is this crazy fucker?’  
The scepter, not surprisingly, did not answer.  
‘Then tell me, why didn’t you work on me? What makes me immune to Asgardian tricks?’  
Nothing changed at all, apart from his mood.  
‘You useless piece of alien shit,’ he said tenderly. ‘I’ll figure it out anyway.’


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the genius and the god have a duel of wits.

The scepter rested in its holder, as it did for the past few days, shimmering in pale blue and droning almost inaudibly only when Tony drew his hand closer to it. He'd began suspecting that the damned thing had a personality of its own - as much of a personality as an alien weapon could have - and could be, in fact, either stubborn or looking forward to a conversation in its own right. Not that he considered having his mind enslaved a proper social interaction.

He'd tried everything, from most sophisticated molecular examination to crude sample collecting (which, obviously, was bound to fail). From careful measurements to tossing the artifact on the ground. Nothing worked. The only visible achievement was an inch wide cut in his floor, amusingly, not far away from the god-shaped hole he will certainly get rid of one day. 

To sum up, he'd done all that came to his mind that could elicit any response. To no avail. Until today, when he found the scepter gleaming so much it could compete with the arc reactor. The sight was irritating, first of all. 

'What the hell is wrong with you?' Tony held the weapon. It pricked his skin, as if it created a weak magnetic field. Only it didn't, he had checked this a thousand times. 'Rebellious, huh? Homesick? Or... excited?' He squinted his eyes. 'You can't wait to see the crazy bastard, can you, darling?' His smile was part scorn, part mocked jealousy. 'I can't believe you still choose him over me.'  
The pricking intensified to the point where it nearly hurt. Apparently it was the only answer the scepter could offer. Stark put it back in the holder, rubbing his hands. 

'Sir?' JARVIS spoke. 'I'm afraid there is a trespasser in the lobby.'  
Tony displayed the broadcast from security cameras in front of him. The figure walking through the corridors of his tower was unmistakable; no other being could bear maintaining such an aura of ominous pride without developing a peculiar kind of radiation sickness.  
‘Predictable,’ he complained.  
There were some changes, though. Loki’s armor was even more damaged than after his encounter with the Hulk, and, thankfully, he must have left his infamous helmet somewhere else. His uncovered hair was long, lustreless and tangled, some strands resembling messy braids. The Asgardian held a spear – nothing fancy, as far as Stark could tell, and with a leather strap as only dubious adornment. It wasn’t suitable for a proud god. Rather a weapon of a heathen seer, in fact.  
‘Sir?’  
Tony hesitated.  
‘Don’t stop him.’

He watched as the god walked towards the elevator. Then counted floors, waiting for the quiet clicking sound and steps of shod boots. 

He didn’t have to wait long. 

'Just for your information,' Tony began, lifting his hands in a gesture that had little to do with surrender, 'Kidnapping me or threatening me doesn't work. Quite the opposite. So if you have any intentions of discussing your shit, put that goddamned spear down.'  
Surprisingly, the god obeyed. He didn't look much less intimidating without the weapon, though.  
'That's better.'  
The Asgardian looked around. The last time he had seen this place it was bright and spacious. Now long tables and strange devices filled the room, changing it into a makeshift laboratory with the Chitauri scepter as its heart. The bar was, not surprisingly, still here, along with a collection of glasses and a crowd of half-emptied bottles, and it was also the spot in which he was expecting to see Stark. However, the mortal was standing in the center of the room, one foot on the edge of a certain hole in the floor. By some standards, specific for this realm and its spoilt, genius inhabitants, it must have been amusing.  
'I came to talk to you,' he said.  
'Let me guess,' Tony replied slowly, 'To what do I owe this pleasure. Why me, not Hawkeye? You'd have an arrow in your eye before you'd manage to say "kneel". Nat? No, she's too clever as for a mewling quim, and this time you have nothing to offer. Spangles is too honorable to even consider talking to you like this.' He frowned. 'Bruce? I'm not sure you want to see him again, even if he'd begin with muttering apologies in all the languages he knows. And your brother is not there. So it leaves me as your only... option.'  
Loki gave a barely visible, wry smile.  
'There's no point in denying it.'  
'Great.' Stark smiled back. 'Why don't you sit down and have a proper business talk with me?'  
Even more surprisingly, the god obeyed again, sitting down and crooking his knees under a table suited for beings shorter than him. He followed Tony's bustle around the apartment with a curious gaze. His understanding of Midgard was sufficient for abiding by the etiquette of so-called business meetings. What he didn't expect was a thick glass half-filled with amber liquid that was suddenly placed before him.  
'As requested.' Tony grinned from above his glass. 'I am so going to regret it.'

Loki's smile could have been classified as knowing if one showed enough good will to assume the god could have something else than murder and world domination on his mind.  
'So?' Stark began tapping his fingers on the surface of the table.  
The alien straightened himself up.  
'You probably have already talked to Asgard's messenger.'  
'The Minithor? Yeah.' Tony recalled the image of young godling. 'So is it now time for great reveal?'  
'Pretty much.' Loki's lips curled in yet another smirk. The expression could have as well been carved in his face. Which had changed since the siege, as the engineer noticed - the Asgardian had become even paler, even thinner, retaining his regal air so desperately it could evoke mainly pity. Or, in this particular case, curiosity.  
'Man, what a sense of dramatism.'  
'Did you talk to him in person?'  
'Does it matter?' He shrugged.  
'It might.' The god fixed his eyes on him.  
'Well, if you say so.' Tony gave another shrug, this one solely to relieve the sudden uneasiness. He had expected less glaring, more fun. Or at least more opportunities to make witty retorts. 'I didn't. I only saw the footage of his, er, negotiations with Nat and some other chick. I guess they don't want him to see all of us. As if it mattered,' he grunted. 'You know all about us already.'  
'Not necessarily, but that's a different issue.' Loki raised the glass to his lips and sipped its content carefully, as if anticipating poison. His expression didn't reveal whether he liked the taste or not. 'I assume the - as you called it - negotiations didn't proceed quite as expected.'  
'Don't get me wrong, it's not that Asgardians declaring war on Earth are a novelty,' Tony pointed out. 'Or is it some kind of welcoming ritual of yours? Hi, let's have a sparring on a global scale?'  
Sadly, the comment went unnoticed.  
'War?' Loki's fingers clenched nervously around the glass. 'What do you mean by war?'  
'War as in war.' For a while, sparks of sarcasm in his eyes faded. 'Well, he didn't require the whole city to kneel as he made his statement, obviously. And because he calls himself a diplomat, he gave us a virtual alternative. Which is, we give you back to the cosmic Vikings and naively hope they won't slaughter us anyway.'

'But you're not naive.' After a short consideration, the god drank again, keeping both viridian eyes on his interlocutor. He knew how mortals changed over time, but the changes that occurred in Stark were beyond ordinary aging. It shouldn't have surprised him - and yet, it did. Especially when something was competing with subtle deepening of wrinkles and dark rings round the eyes. Something that only the mortals could call a reactor.  
'Naive enough to drink with you.' Tony smiled. 'Seriously. You were supposed to make an offer, not to ask questions!'  
'I am contented with the progress of our conversation,' he replied with a flat expression. 'What are you planning to do?'  
'If you're wondering whether they're preparing a new jar for you, the answer is no. No offence, Rock of Ages, but this time I think it's not about you.'  
'Of course it is not,' Loki retorted impatiently.  
'Is this the scene in which you're telling me everything and I believe your flawless logic instantly? Already?' Stark sounded genuinely disappointed.  
The god gave a wide, bright, amused grin.  
'What makes you think I'll tell you everything? Ever?'  
Tony drew a sharp breath.  
'Feel free to skip the eight-legged horse part,' he said, calculating the velocity of falling from the uppermost floor.  
Loki nearly dug his nails into the table. Which was, Tony decided, a good measure of his willingness to talk.  
'Is this how much your famous genius is worth?' The god snapped. 'Instead of planning a strategy, you choose to dwell upon gossip and trifle legends?' He gripped his glass and drank the alcohol in one, surprisingly dignified, gulp. 'So much for an alliance.'  
'...Alliance. Seriously.' Stark resisted the urge to pinch his own forearm to make sure this wasn't a delusion produced by his dying brain.  
The crazy, murderous alien, apparently not as murderous as before - even if probably more crazy - gave a snort.  
'I'm rather astounded to find out that I care about this realm more than you do,' he said quietly.  
'You're not going to get it as a prize for your generous help,' Tony uttered, feeling more confident again.  
The Asgardian crossed his arms.  
'I do not want it.'  
The engineer didn't bother to conceal his expression of disbelief and suspicion.  
'So? Is caring for this puny world your punishment?'  
A twitch contorted Loki's lips.  
'There are matters and concepts I value more than my pride, and one of those is at stake. I expect you to acknowledge it and to derive relevant conclusions.'  
'Sure.' Tony leaned over the table to refill both glasses. 'I get it. There's just one thing. You haven't made the best first impression, you know. The second one wasn't good, either. Don't expect me to trust you. I'm not saying you're up to conquering my planet again...' He looked into the god's eyes. 'But I need a proof. Anything that would convince me.'

For a second that lasted hours they stared at each other intensely, trying to find a hint of honesty in cold green madness, traces of trust in clear dark brown. Attempting to see past words and expressions and to grasp anything they could hold on to in a conversation that did not go quite as planned.  
'Alas,' said Loki quietly, finally closing his eyes, 'I have no proof, not even evidence, nothing more powerful and convincing than my words.'  
'What.' Tony dropped back to his chair. 'You can't be serious.' His voice was flat, and the only distinguishable emotion was - once again - disappointment.  
'I am.' The god inclined his head, patently evading Stark's questioning gaze.  
'Wait. No. It's you, for fuck's sake, you have the proof, right? You're shitting me, you want me to be confused, don't you? Can't you give up on this stupid game and tell me? Because, seriously, you've just used my resources of patience and goodwill for the next decade!' Tony noticed that somewhere between the angry exclamations his hands have clenched themselves into fists.  
Loki said nothing.  
'Fuck you, then.' The engineer disregarded his guest completely and focused on his glass.

In the heavy silence the Asgardian kept observing Tony in a manner that could count as casual in case their eyes met again. His seemingly inattentive glimpse caught on dimmed light of the reactor, its owner's furrowed brows, the blue outline provided by glimmering scepter behind him. The scepter that didn't affect this particular mortal, he recalled. Not without a wince. 

'Why bother?' Stark broke the silence. 'Are you putting up another fucking show? Is this a rehearsal?'  
'Absolutely not.' Irrespective of Loki's inscrutable expression, his eyes shone with what could be either anger or despair. Tony made a wildcat assumption that it was rather the latter.  
'You just want me to know that there might be another version of truth.' He smiled at the last word, but his smile lacked happiness or even mock. 'You want this thought to bug me. So that when all else fails,' he said, his voice almost trembling with outrage, 'I turn to you.' 

'Because you know everything we try will fail,' he continued, now pacing around the floor. 'We don't have enough data to figure your Sass-gardian games. All we have is this tingling sense that something's terribly wrong.'  
This situation felt disturbingly familiar, the god in his tower, the city behind and beneath him, separated only by thin glass. But Loki didn't move from his chair, sitting as rigidly and lordly as he did before.  
'And what would happen if I told you that I don't know much more than this?' He sounded mostly tired. 'It is a provocation, obviously, and I have yielded to it as well.'  
'Just great.' Tony gave a theatrical sigh. 'Any advice on dealing with the Minithor?'  
The alien gave a slight smile.  
'Isolating him was a clever move.'

He rose from his chair and turned to the door.  
'Hey, wait.' The engineer stopped him. 'Don't expect me to invite you to a sleepover, but have you got, er, a cell phone or something? Is there any convenient way of contacting you?'  
Loki hesitated.  
'I assume my former weapon will be more than eager to find me.'  
'What a humble compass.' Tony rolled his eyes. 'I'll see what I can do. A god-tracking device.'  
'Good luck,' said the Asgardian, stepping into the elevator.  
'Wait.' Stark blocked its door with his hand. 'How long has it been for you?'  
The reply, as before, came after a while of wavering.  
'Long enough. And for you?'  
Tony blinked, taken aback. Not only he didn't die tonight - although his guest didn't seem to need any good reason to justify killing - but also he was considered an ally. And even in those extraordinary conditions, he didn't see this somewhat polite question coming.  
'A few sleepless nights,' he said at last.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a crow pays a visit, Forseti is introduced to bagels, and dams are broken.

Contrary to popular beliefs, defeated gods - as Loki sometimes thought of himself, always frowning - don't exist in a void. And there is no rule to force them to lurk in despicable hovels. The Asgardian had no intention to live in conditions other than at least marginally lush, even if he was a refugee. Not that he would ever regard himself as such. 

His apartment was one of those spacious places with huge windows, but those were soon covered by heavy velveteen curtains in shade of dark emerald, and elaborately carved ebony furniture took up most of the floor. The rest of spaciousness was swept out by thick candles in candleholders of dark, wrought iron, thick animal furs replacing rugs, old books and countless imponderabilia, most of which were ornate. The whole place spoke of its inhabitant in a way that was obviously ominous and ominously obvious. 

This day had begun for Loki with nervous pacing and forcing himself to think, to turn the puzzle of inexact information into a clear image. The Allfather broke his promise, that was certain - but he had no reason to pull Forseti into this game. _Seemingly._ Loki winced to his reflection in the window, pressing fingers to his temples. It was simply too tempting to use the young godling as a pawn. Forseti might not know the worlds outside Asgard, but he wasn't naive. On the other hand, one couldn't deny him ambition - arrogance, even - and that made him prone to manipulation. 

Loki turned and began walking in the opposite direction, now facing a flat drum hung on the wall, when loud croaking interrupted his frantic stream of thoughts. 

He looked towards the window, not bothering to conceal his disgust.  
'I should have known you'd find me,' he said finally.  
The crow scraped glass with his claw. Another black silhouette was circling above the building. The Asgardian gave a rather unhappy, malicious grin.   
'I won't let you in. You should know better.'   
The bird let out another caw. Loki scowled.  
'I don't believe you.'  
If crows could smile, this one certainly would. Instead, it only cocked its head, staring at his interlocutor with one eye in colour of indigo ink. Loki fixed his gaze on the shiny iris, as if it was a trial - yet another one.  
'He wouldn't do this.' The trickster clasped his hands, receiving a high-pitched croak in response. 'No, he wouldn't. Tell him I...' He paused, groping for words, but those that were strong enough were also too sincere. 'I changed my mind. Don't tell him anything.'  
The crow's reply sounded much like scornful laughter. It pushed itself from the window handle and flew away, still croaking. 

Without hesitation, Loki picked up one of the trinkets, transformed it into a sharp piece of obsidian, opened the window and threw it, like a knife, allowing himself a few seconds of joy as it hit the target. 

But the sight of Huginn's uneven flight, an equivalent of limping, didn't provide enough satisfaction to dispel thoughts and suspicions. Odin and his supporters were one matter; the mortals of S.H.I.E.L.D. were another. It was quite comforting to know they didn't sheepishly follow Forseti's orders - for calling them anything else would be a lie even Loki wouldn't utter without choking on it - but Director's own pride could ruin every subtle plan the Asgardian conjured up so far. And there was Stark - the wild card, the reckless freethinker, the paradoxical philantropist who claimed himself selfish, and yet risked his life for others so often. That was also a trait that could be used to yield a person. It would take some time to build a subtle, credible sense of danger in his mind, but - 

He scowled again, this time to himself. Alliance required sincerity, to some extent. And satisfying his curiosity about that weird, beating thing in Stark's chest would require even more of it. 

***

It was his eighteenth day on Midgard. Eighteenth day without being woken by Sunna's warm rays caressing his face. Eighteenth day without a courteous bow to the throne and the Allfather. Eighteenth day without participating in hectic life of the most beautiful of worlds. 

Eighteenth day of agitation and solitude, and it tainted this rueful place with bitterness.

Forseti slowly opened his eyes and blinked, letting artificial light reach them and gradually draw out the details of his cell. He knew them already better than he would ever want to. His mind felt heavy with boredom and despicable uselessness. So far, his actions were limited to delivering messages. It was as though they were merely pushed through his mouth; the words didn't belong to him. Instead of proving his worth, he became and uncreative, empty puppet. He even thought that this damned place might be killing him, but decided not to share his doubts with anyone. If he was to die, he'd be the first fallen in the Gloaming. 

He lifted himself from the bed and eyed his breakfast. Midgardian food was revoltingly tasteless; he pushed the plate further from him and began dressing himself. The glass eyes hanging from the ceiling deprived him of his privacy, if Claire the Messenger was right. Thus, he acquired a habit of changing his clothes while looking directly at them, shamelessly. Accusingly. This was not how the mortals were supposed to treat their gods.

At least nobody locked his door. He walked the empty corridor, as lifeless and cold as his cell. New York outside of this building was completely different, nearly deafening and bursting with vivacity. Forseti thought he could like it, if not the many wounds the city had received.

'Watch where you're going!' also wasn't among the lines he'd gladly hear from the mortals, but since it was Claire's shriek, he could even forgive her bumping into him.

She clambered from the floor, her stilettos - a parody of proper heels in Forseti's opinion - sliding on tiles. Her mouth crooked with what could be best described as stubborn resentment. Once she got up, her scowl smoothened to a nervous smile.  
'Sorry, thought you're some low-rank agent.' She ran a hand through her hair.   
'I'm not offended. Just worried if you hurt yourself.' He decided not to point out that she was a low-rank agent herself.  
'That's nothing,' The Messenger assured him. 'Um, well, what are you up to?'  
Forseti fell silent.  
'Nothing in particular,' he replied at last.  
'Right, it must be pretty boring for you to be stuck in here -' She cut off, inwardly cursing her thoughtless loquacity. Or eloquence, as Benny preferred to call it. 'Have you eaten anything?'  
The godling stifled a scoffing chuckle.   
'Not yet, Miss Claire.'  
'Maybe you wanna join me for breakfast, then?' She asked on the spur of the moment. 'I was going to get myself some bagels anyway.' Which was a lie, but her delay with document proofreading certainly wouldn't hurt anyone.  
'I have never eaten bagels,' Forseti admitted.   
Claire grinned.  
'Great.'

The place chosen by the Messenger suited her and confused Forseti; contrary to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, it attacked the customer with loud colours from every corner. He couldn't see the walls behind huge murals which were, in Claire's words,   
"panels from comics" - although Forseti couldn't find anything comical in them. She also said the people on murals were "superheroes", but, by Forseti's judgment, no imaginable nation would portray their heroes in such tight attire, giving away all bodily details and providing no shield in battle. At the very peak of confusion, loudspeakers nearly exploded with aggressive music the agent labeled as "rock", even though it had nothing to do with sounds of rolling boulders.

But he had to admit the bagels were surprisingly tasty.

'Now you're a true New Yorker,' Claire told him proudly, and Forseti didn't know whether to feel offended or not. He chose to cut his next bagel in half and wriggled his fingers above small portions of spreads. 'I assume you're not going home any soon.'  
'I...' He stuttered, and instantly scolded himself for it. 'It depends on the situation.'  
The Messenger furrowed her brows.  
'I thought you already had made an agreement.'  
'I am certain your superiors understood Asgardian request,' he said, lowering his voice, 'but I need to see that it is done.'  
Claire's stomach twitched. She called that feeling "intuition", and never liked it.  
'We're not a stupid species, we can take care for our business without your supervision.'  
'It's a delicate matter, and my assistance might be required,' he told her, assuming his most calm expression.  
'And this is why they keep you in that room?' She asked dubiously.   
Forseti gave the coldest, least happy smile she'd ever seen.  
'Midgardian hospitality.'  
The agent went slightly pale and muttered something under her breath. It sounded a bit like "go fuck yourself".  
'Let me tell you what I think,' she finally said, beginning to lose her temper. Few days with no news from Benny, filled with doubts and fear instead - yes, fear, now she recognized it - condensed in this one conversation. 'They wouldn't treat you like this if that fucking request was fair. And you're not here to supervise anything, because they won't let you anyway. You're a reminder that we need to work our asses off to make your chief happy. A living, breathing threat.'  
Forseti stared at her, concealing everything, blank as a statue. Claire stared back until her eyes began to sting. She dabbed at them with a handkerchief, surprised to find it traced with mascara and tears.  
'What kind of person sends their under-age relative as a declaration of war?' She asked in a faltering voice.  
The godling leaned back.  
'This is none of your interest, Messenger.'  
'But there must be a way out.' She fidgeted on her chair, trying to ignore another surge of gut feeling. 'There always is a way out.'   
Forseti smirked.  
'Are you attempting to save the status quo of this petty realm? Or just yourself? If the latter, worry not, I have no intentions of killing you.'  
'I was thinking about you, you moron,' she snapped.   
In spite of loud music and untillegible choir of chatter, Forseti felt as if the two of them were closed in a bubble of complete silence.  
'I didn't ask for your help, little mortal.'  
Claire had never before heard this word turned into an insult by his mouth.   
'Still, I'm offering it,' she said. 

Without further comments, she finished her breakfast, paid for them both and carefully packed her bag. The godling observed her in silence. She neatly wiped her eyes and beckoned to him. It was an impulse, but Forseti followed.

***

Jane wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, sighing heavily. Opened windows in the computer laboratory didn't change anything, and neither did the cooling system - the fans just minced thick, hot air. Still, she didn't want to leave the room, even for a short while. She glanced at doctor Banner, who was standing motionlessly in front of a huge hologram screen. From time to time he would lift his hand and push a column of numbers aside with a quick gesture. She couldn't help wondering how on Earth did S.H.I.E.L.D. afford its funding for science. 

Darcy's head appeared in the door.  
'Forgive me, but I won't join the inferno,' she said. 'Can't you do anything about it?'  
Bruce smiled at her.  
'Shutting computers down while they're still processing the calculations isn't the best idea.'  
'Oh. Well. Maybe you'd like some refreshments, then?' She suggested. 'Mineral water, frappe, beer, whatever is permitted in the lab... champagne?' She added with a blink in her eye.  
The two scientists glanced at each other, mildly puzzled by the wide choice Darcy offered in one rapidly pronounced sentence.   
'Let me think,' Jane said. Her assistant nodded vigorously and disappeared. 

The scientists' attention was instantly drawn to the screen again. It displayed a rendering of the tree and warped a well-known map of the outer space around it. The boughs and roots bore little resemblance to biological forms, but their number was correct. Everything branched out into triples. Each ramification ended with a pulsing red dot. Jane let her hand sink into the hologram and evoked another map. A thick, circular nebula formed around the tree's trunk, and red dots blackened.   
'Black holes,' she whispered. 'Shortcuts.'  
'And a ring of plasma?' Bruce squinted. 'No doubt it could distort the tree.'  
'It could really be a living creature, for all we know,' Jane tried to speak calmly, but her voice broke with emotions.  
Banner stepped back and gave a little bow. Foster gaped at him in surprise.  
'I think this evidence is strong enough to make your hypothesis a valid theory,' he said, smiling. 'Congratulations.'  
'I...' She bit her lip. 'I just thought it could work.'  
There were other things she wanted to express - from self-doubt to nearly manic hope - but she didn't have to. She could see recognition in Bruce's calm, reassuring look. They both knew those feelings. They knew the intimidation of a great discovery as well. 

They stared at each other, exchanging thoughts without words, but Jane faltered and turned away.  
'What good is it,' she sighed, 'if we can't use it with our current energy sources? Unless S.H.I.E.L.D. has a nuclear power plant of its own.' She forced a wary smile on her lips. 'Or even a dozen nuclear power plants.'  
Bruce glanced at the skyline. A hideously shaped futuristic tower prevailed over other cuboid buildings.  
'Whereas I wouldn't be much surprised by the nuclear power plant,' he said, 'I don't think we'll need it.'

'It's champagne, then,' Darcy judged loudly.

***

The decision has been made; it became a clear, fixed point in Clint's mind, guiding him like an arrow of a compass. He strode, not noticing how his hands clenched into fists or when Natasha joined him, walking behind him as his shadow. It felt surprisingly light to move without a quiver attached to his back. The emptiness of vulnerability closed around him, surpassed only by his anger. Morsels of images flashed before his eyes, some familiar, some not -

_Some do battle, and some do tricks, brother -_

\- but what seeped in the opposite direction? 

Chrome door shut behind him and flourished with elaborate knots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the most fun for me, particularly because it's dense with hints and allusions to Norse culture. I wonder how visible they are. Feel invited to the hint hunt. ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Natasha goes on a hunt, Loki attempts to unravel fate, Tony discovers that he's been missing out and Phase Three begins.

_The door closes, separating you and her, and you don't know any longer where you really are. As if she was the only thing that connected you to this world - and now you slip into a limbo, stuck between dream and reality, where your memories gather around you, like an acquisitive tide._

_As your mind wanders back to those blue idle days, you remember there was an eerie quality to being a slave. Oddly liberating, though you still refuse to admit it. Its name is lack of responsibility. Someone else paid the price for your actions. Argue as long as you want, but the blood was not on your hands. Nobody judged you._

_You were free._

_Don't deny it. Think of that redheaded woman of yours - wasn't she the first to comfort you, once the azure haze disappeared? Did you tell her how much you wanted - truly, deeply longed - to kill her just the day before? Have you found words for that unbound desire, hatred and doubt, a sum of little revenges for every time you needed her support and she remained cold? So I thought._

_I didn't invent those feelings for you, I didn't conjure them up. They were already within you, clamped between morality and reason. I handed them to you, sincere as they were, to make you whole. To make you true. And all you do is blame me for the crime that is **you**._

'Clint,' Natasha said sharply, pressing her hand onto metal bars between them. 'Clint. Look at me.'   
He groaned and obeyed. His eyes were bloodshot under swollen eyelids.   
'What was it?' She asked with concern, lowering her head by an inch. It gave her the air of a predator sensing its victim - as if she could do anything about this situation. A short, hysterical cackle rose and immediately died in Barton's dry throat.  
'A voice.' Hawkeye shrugged. 'A voiceless voice.' He paused for a moment. 'That doesn't make much sense, does it? I guess I'm going mad, and that's all.'  
'You're not going mad,' she insisted. 'You still know it's alien. That's why you -'  
Clint leaned back on the wall of his cell, smiling faintly. The expression highlited his fatigue even more, bordering on hysteria, half surrender, half unleashed will to fight. Only there was nothing to fight against. Nothing visible.   
'Why I decided to let them lock me up? If I didn't ask them to, they'd drag me here in a few days anyway. I guess I can have as much dignity as this.'   
'Nonsense.' Natasha caught his absent, teary gaze. 'Is this what the voice told you?'  
He cowered his arms.  
'No,' he said reluctantly. 'It doesn't... it didn't tell me anything I hadn't known before. It didn't judge. It just brought up facts and memories and showed them in such light I was disgusted with myself. Maybe...' He looked deeply into her eyes, as if making sure she wouldn't laugh. 'Maybe it belongs to me.'  
Romanoff said nothing.   
'Maybe I should talk with our other prisoner. The godling, I mean.' Clint rubbed his eyelids. 'Forseti.'  
She pursed her lips for a while, thinking carefully over her answer.  
'I wouldn't do this. I don't trust him.'  
For the first time since Clint asked his superiors to lock him in a cell and seal the data off from him, a sincere smile appeared on his face.  
'You don't trust anyone, darling.'  
Natasha smiled back.   
'I'm certain he's not as sympathetic as he claims to be,' she said, turning back to seriousness. 'He's a child, even if a very powerful one, and someone gave him orders. If you tell him, you might be telling someone else as well.'  
'For now I might be sharing my thoughts with Loki, it can't get much worse than this,' he pointed out angrily.   
'Well, for now you can share the image of this cosy cell with him,' she replied.   
'The bastard can have my frustration too. I hope he chokes on it.'  
Romanoff let out a quiet snort, as close to laughter as she would get.   
'That... connection you have could be useful, remember,' she said slowly.  
Hawkeye waved his hand towards a few recording devices left on the metal slab mounted to the wall.   
'They wouldn't let me forget about it.'  
'There's no "they" in here, Clint.' She clenched her fingers around the metal bar until the knuckles turned white. 'There's us. You're still a part of S.H.I.E.L.D.'  
He reached out to touch her hand.  
'The same S.H.I.E.L.D. that launched Phase Two without bothering to tell us? The same one that tried to nuke New York?'  
'Yes,' Natasha said, gathering all of her conviction in that one word. 'That's S.H.I.E.L.D. That's us. We make mistakes. Everyone does.'   
Their fingers touched for a few seconds, then she drew her hand back.   
'You should go back,' Clint said gloomily.   
'Indeed.' Romanoff got up, not willing to stretch the goodbye any longer than necessary. 'I'll visit you soon.'   
Barton watched her turn away and head towards the door.   
'One thing, Tasha,' he called.   
Her arms budged. She turned her profile to him in a seemingly casual manner.  
'Yes?'  
'Find Loki for me.'  
'I promise I will,' said Natasha, without hesitation, pressing one hand to her chest where she could feel her own beating heart. Which was a gesture Barton couldn't see.

She walked out with a quirky, nauseant vertigo building up slowly in her head. Answering the questions would fall to her. Rogers would be straightforward and more empathetic than curious, and he would expect an equally honest answer, although she wasn't sure she would be able to give it. Stark, on the other hand, would want the facts, not the personal data, and he would leap to conclusions on his own. Banner wouldn't ask at all, shy and humbly polite and knowing that she'd tell him at last anyway. And Thor - Thor wasn't there, she had to remind herself. For the first time since Forseti appeared, she was grateful for it. It would be easier to hunt Loki without risking an encounter with Mjollnir. 

***

Someone once told Loki that he needs to understand that everyone's fate is tangled and the thread of his own wyrd would never be loose. He smirked at this idea. Now, many years later, he found himself working on the delicate fabric of fate. Only the person that spoke to him was wrong. Wyrd wasn't a firm yarn spun by skilled hands. It was a knot. He meant to untangle it. 

He sank in an armchair, cupping his chin. He tucked at his own memories, bringing them to mind, until he found the focal point: his last conversation with the Allfather.

***

'...but why me?' Loki smiled thinly in such a humble manner it could have been only offensive. 'You could have asked anyone. The all-seeing Heimdall, for example, since Bifrost is gone. Or your ever loyal Tyr. Or my brother.' He winced. 'So why me? You never needed beings who had nothing to lose.' A hint of provocation in his voice faded, giving place to suspicion.  
Odin did not even move. He stared into other god's - Jotun's - weary eyes, waiting for a glimpse of sudden realization to appear and brighten the cold viridian. 

And it did. 

'They still haven't understood it yet, have they?' Loki began walking in a nervous pace. His movements were still rigid after the time of imprisonment. 'Not even my brother, although he had spent so much time on Midgard. They still believe in their immortality and rightful reign. They carry the prophecy of the Gloaming deep in their hearts, convinced that nothing can do them harm until they hear the horn. That is, oh Allfather, the most impressive lie of all.'   
He mocked a bow. Even if Odin found this gesture outrageous, he kept it for himself, remaining unmoved.  
'And how do you know?' The look in Allfather's only eye was somewhat calm, almost compassionate.   
Loki stopped at once, trying to conceal a surge of fear brought by memories.  
'The Chitauri certainly weren't the most subtle of the races I've encountered,' he said, his fingers clenching involuntarily. 'I have seen what they can do to those who call themselves gods.'  
'Seen,' Odin repeated after him.   
'It wasn't anyone from Asgard, as far as I know.' 

Images of that demonstration - as his torturers called it - nearly made him shiver. They were as vivid as if he had seen the crippled, blooded figure yesterday. His - or hers - hands were tied at the back with what looked like a coarse cord, soaked in blood and knotted so tightly that it foiled any gesture other than frantic, painful trembling of fingers. The creature was beautiful even as they slaughtered it, and the sparkle of magic still brightened it, though the body had become lifeless and cold.

The Wanderer didn't reply. 

Finally, Loki looked up to the throne.  
'So you want me to keep your precious little secret? Why would I?' Victorious malice swept all signs of weariness from his face, leaving his most remarkable, most loved, most loathed, brilliance. 'Wouldn't it be at least interesting to see your friends and brothers in arms discover that your reign is a matter of successful conquest only? No inborn rights? No ancient magic?' His voice dropped to a trembling whisper.   
Odin leaned back.   
'Is this your revenge to confront me with this painful truth?' He asked, although nothing in his tone indicated pain. 'As if I didn't know well enough.' His hand wandered to the eye patch.  
'This is most certainly not revenge,' the Trickster said. It could have been a threat, or a promise, or both.  
'Are you willing to help me, then?'   
Loki nearly froze under Allfather's strong, observant gaze.  
'I might consider it. What do you offer in return for my help?'  
'Freedom. Forgiveness. A place among us.'  
'I never could indulge in any of those in my past.' The Liesmith closed his eyes for a while, too aware of what they could give away. 'Why would I believe you now?'  
'Because the world is changing, Loki, and so is Asgard.' An edge to Odin's voice made it clear that there was something else in those words, more than an empty but useful phrase, something that he had witnessed of foreseen while bleeding into the Tree's trunk. But Loki only shook his head. 'You can have Draupnir, or any other object the dwarves have crafted.'  
'Any other object?' Loki asked, raising one eyebrow, as if he wanted to point out that Mjollnir was also a masterpiece of dwarven craftsmanship. 'Oh yes, I can't deny I find such objects utterly tempting.' He smiled at the sheer idea of possessing such wealth. 'But - let me think.' He lifted his hand, index finger pointing to the ceiling. 'You called to protect Asgard and its denizens, your beloved heir is in danger. Aren't you now trying to trade your son's life for a mere thing?' His eyes flared with anger.  
Odin sighed deeply.  
'I will not play your game any longer, Loki. What do you want?'  
His once-son allowed himself a barely visible, but undeniably triumphant smile.  
'A domain that no one ever considered worth claiming.' 

***

On a scale of boredom ranging from zero to being cuffed to the chair and forced to watch one episode of reality TV on repeat, this business meeting wasn't very far from the reality TV punishment. Nothing helped - not even checking the newsfeed (nearly every minute), playing a few rounds of Angry Birds upgraded in honour of Hawkeye or texting Pepper, who was sitting on the opposite side of table and raised brows higher with each provocative message.

Tony sighed with weariness reserved for people enduring unspeakable torment and quickly took a snapshot of some CEO yawning. Pepper noticed and gave him a rebuking look, as if his action would disrupt the meeting. Alas, it did not. People kept on talking, overusing long, abstract words and stuffing each sentence with so much stiff politeness it hurt the ears. 

Minutes passed.

Tony logged in to his Twitter account and typed "Business representatives don't know how to party". He pondered upon tagging it as #Idon'tdoboring. At the moment when he decided to post the tweet, his smartphone rang. 

He nearly jumped in his chair. So did a few other people, who apparently didn't expect to hear Metallica all of a sudden. In fact, he didn't expect this particular ringtone either - it was reserved for Bruce Banner, who didn't seem to grasp the idea of friendly phone calls. Tony did his best to avoid Pepper's glare and rose from his seat.  
'I'm terribly sorry, but this is about a scientific breakthrough and not to answer it would be a crime,' he said, grinning with a peculiar, victorious form of relief. 

He walked out to the sounds of "Cyanide", leaving the room and astonished looks behind him. Only when the door closed, he picked up the call.   
'Thanks for saving my life,' he said.   
'Tony?' Bruce sounded surprised and concerned. 'How are you? Is everything alright?'  
'I'm fine. I wasn't serious with the life saving part. Or, well, I was, but they say it's physiologically impossible to die of boredom. I don't believe in that shit, though. How are you, that's more important, I guess?'  
'I'm doing well.' The answer came after a long, silent while, which Banner probably needed to recover from the first portion of Stark's babbling. 'But there's something I need to tell you about.'  
'Go on.'   
'I - I don't know how to say it, but you're missing out. And we need the reactor. By "we" I mean doctor Foster and me. And now I doubt it's a good idea to discuss it on the phone...'  
'You're telling me I'm missing out,' Tony exclaimed brokenheartedly. 'No offense, but it'll take me a while to reach India.'  
'I'm in New York.'   
He could nearly hear Bruce blushing with social awkwardness.   
'And you didn't tell me? Asshole. Where exactly?'  
'S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.'  
'See you soon, then,' Stark said, his spirits rising again. 'I've just reorganized my schedule.' 

***

If his previous adventures with Claire were much like a spaghetti western in urban fantasy decorations, Benny's current job reminded him of a sci-fi thriller more than he would like to. He spent most of his time in a big complex of buildings, far from any sign of civilization. His laboratory was placed underground and it drove his circadian rhythms crazy, but at some point he stopped caring. He was too focused on dealing with this... thing.

It was impossible for him to call it his own achievement, since it was nothing more than a combination of someone else's designs - partially ripped off Stark's blueprints, partially based on Chitauri technology. He worked on it day and night, rearranging pieces, reverse-engineering, polishing the new weapon, changing it into something even more efficient. Even more deadly. 

He massaged his temples, rubbing latex gloves against his skin. His laptop blinked and a new message from Claire - tenth this week - popped up. He turned away from the screen, wishing it'd disappear.


End file.
